He looked up, unbothered. "Sure it is. It's for my architecture thesis. The cover should tell you what's inside before you read a single word." He pointed to her blank screen. "What's inside yours?"
Faculty: Social Sciences Student: Sofía Márquez Title: The Elasticity of Public Transport Demand...
Below it, in a smaller font, she added a dedication: Para papá.
It wasn't the cover page the rubric asked for. There were no course codes, no professor's name, no ID number. But as she printed it out, she understood what the boy meant. The cover page was the handshake before the conversation. And if she didn't show her own hand first, why would anyone want to shake it?
And Sofía learned that a university paper doesn't begin with a format. It begins with a reason.
Not Just a Number: A Family's Journey on the End of the 67 Line
She looked back at the screen. For the first time, she saw the white space not as a requirement, but as a canvas. She changed the font to Garamond, softer, more human. Then, instead of a cold title, she wrote:
She had spent three days researching the economic impact of the Buenos Aires subway fare hikes. She had read seventeen academic papers, built complex graphs, and written over four thousand words. But this—this blank white square—felt like an insurmountable wall.
